Killing Is My Hobby
by Marcus Reyner
Summary: Frank slays some bodies. Not much to say here.
1. 13 is an unlucky number

**Frank hated waiting. It was his least favorite part of the job. He hated the calm before the storm. That was when things went wrong. He wanted to take action. In combat, situations were fluid, adaptable. But going Rambo would get him killed if he wasn't careful.**

**He brass-checked his weapon, a heavily customized Ruger 10/22 with an integral suppressor. The action went back and forth smoothly, the gleam of brass showing his gun was loaded. He took another look through the 8x Bushnell scope. Just one pull of the trigger. That's all he should need. Well, two pulls. One to break the window, the other to make sure the first didn't get put off-course from the glass shattering. He had loaded the gun with subsonic rounds, those mooks wouldn't have any idea what hit them until they were all dead. But he still had his Uzi as backup. Just in case. As well as his favorite Springfield Armory 1911A1s.**

**The man his sights stepped in front of the window. He sighed. Frank let his breath out, stabilizing the rifle. He squeezed the trigger gently, twice. The man fell silently. Well, aside from the glass breaking. Another man rushed into the room. Two more shots. No alarms. Frank shifted his position. He had already taken out the guards on patrol, without any fanfare. His primary target was down, but he couldn't just let the rest of the scum in that heroin processing plant get out of there alive.**

**He brass-checked his Uzi. Combat load, with 6 extra mags. His 1911s were the same. He put his rifle down, and stood up. The skull on his chest shone slightly in the moonlight. Frank Castle was ready to wreck some shit.**

**He slid down the slanted roof onto the fire escape of the plant's guard house. As he ran toward the main building of the plant, an alarm rang out. They knew he was coming. That wouldn't change a damn thing. Just meant there'd be more of a challenge. The end result would be the same. **

**As he burst through the door of the plant, he smashed into a mook. Frank fired a short burst into the thug's center mass. Two shots hit Frank in the side, nearly piercing his armor. Frank turned and fired another burst at the shooter. Then all hell broke loose. Some young mook with a gun dropped to the floor, crying. Must be the boss's son. Definitely not an experienced hired hand. Frank would save him for last, he wasn't a threat at the moment. There were seven other men firing at him. After a short burst took out two more men, Frank's Uzi jammed. A doublefeed. He didn't have time to fix it.**

**He dropped his weapon, the single-point sling catching it, then pulled one of his 1911s, and fired two shots at each man that his ammo would allow. After eight shots, his gun locked empty, and he ran at the last remaining man, clocking him across the face with his elbow. The man went down. Frank reloaded his 1911, and fired twice into the last man's face, shattering it with two Hydro-Shok rounds. **

**As Frank caught his breath, he realized how age wasn't treating him as well as it could. Back in his 40's, he wouldn't have broken a sweat during this mission. Now in his 60's, he had to stop mid-way. He made a mental note to do extra PT the next day. Frank holstered his 1911 in his drop-leg on his right thigh, putting it back to Condition 1.**

**He ripped the magazine out of his Uzi, walking towards the cowering youngster. As he racked his Uzi's action, the problem round flew out of the ejection port. He re-inserted the magazine, and chambered another round.**

**13 rounds left in that mag. An unlucky number, superstition said. The young mook had wet his pants. Definitely the boss's son. Whether this was Filipo or Ronald Serasso, he didn't care. Papa Joseph would feel the loss of both sons, eventually.**

**"P-p-please, mister! Don't hurt me! My dad can-" He started to whimper.**

**"Your dad can, and will, rot in hell. What I want to know is what YOU can do." Frank growled.**

**"I-I'll do anything! Anything!" was the reply. As Frank expected.**

**"Can you give him a message for me?" Frank asked.**

**"S-s-sure!"**

**"Good. Listen carefully."**

**Frank emptied the magazine into him.**


	2. Stare into the Abyss

**Frank walked home, or rather, to the apartment he was residing in at the moment. His HOME was gone. He heard footsteps behind him. Three men.**

**He heard a weapon being charged behind him. Muggers. He smiled slightly. He loved it when this happened. He closed his trenchcoat, and he turned, staring straight into the barrel of the gun in his face.**

**A shitty little revolver, a Saturday Night Special. The chamber wasn't properly aligned. It couldn't fire. Kid probably swung the cylinder into the gun too much.**

**"Yo, man, that's a nice coat you got there. Your wallet in there?" A lanky little "gangsta" was on the other end of the gun.**

**"Yeah. You want the coat, too?" Frank growled.**

**"Sure do, nyagga. Give it here." Was the reply.**

**Frank undid the button on his coat. The abyss that was the skull's eyes stared at the muggers. The smug little smirk on the leader's face just shattered. Well, metaphorically. Soon to be literally.**

**Frank grabbed the gunman's hand and smashed it, the gun falling to the floor. He then drew his 1911 and fired two shots into the mugger's right eye, decimating the right side of his head.**

**The other two muggers tried to run. Frank dropped to one knee, and took careful aim. He fired four shots, two hammer drills. Both men went down.**

**Frank safed his gun, and holstered it. He was still 3 blocks from his apartment. Still, he might want to get ready to move again.**

**As Frank entered his apartment, he hung his coat up, and took off his holsters. He locked his door behind him, and put his weapons in his office.**

**He poured himself a vodka. Kalashnikov vodka. Frank figured he owed Kalashnikov for the AK, and his vodka wasn't bad, anyways. It was hard to find, though. Probably too much effort to spend on booze, but it was good booze.**

**As he drank, memories came to him. Bad memories. Memories of his family's death. O'Brien's death. Micro's. Jenny Cesare's. He tried to keep back the tears, but a few got through. He tried to think of happier things, like the fact that his and O'Brien's daughter was safe, although she would never know about him. It was probably for the best.**

**Frank decided to shelve his feelings, and work on his M4A1. Micro had gotten him a 11.5" barrel, with a low-profile gas-block, and a Phantom flash hider.**

**Frank usually used a GemTech suppressor with it. He also ran an Aimpoint COMP M4 RDS, a foregrip, and a tac-light. He disassembled the rifle, and cleaned every part to a near-shine.**

**As he put it back together, he heard a knock on the door. He got up and looked through the peephole. A man in a suit, with a bible and a jar. Frank stowed his rifle and opened the door, keeping the chain attached, making sure his 1911 was within reach.**

**"Hello sir, I'm with St. Rosemary's Children's Hospital, and I was wondering if you could make a donation to our cancer ward?" The man asked.**

**Frank stared at the man, incredulous that a man of God would come to a shit-hole ghetto like the one Frank lived in. In Frank's experience with the church, they never left their comfort zone.**

**"Yeah. Sure. Just a second." Frank said, reaching in his wallet. He pulled out four $20s, and dropped them in the jar. The charity worker's face lit up.**

**"God bless you, sir!"**

**Frank smiled a bit at that. Just when he started to think there was no hope for mankind, something like this happens.**


	3. Good Samaritan

**Frank woke up. He checked his alarm. 5 minutes until the alarm went off. Fuck. He hated that. He turned off his clock.**

**A noise had woken him up. A scream, emanating from the alley next to his apartment building. He loaded up a Goncz pistol, put it in a shoulder sling, and headed out.**

**Some mook was threatening a woman in the alley, holding a knife to her chest. He had already cut off her shirt, and the knife blade was hooked in her bra as Frank stepped up behind the scumbag.**

**"You don't want to do that" growled Frank.**

**The man turned, and put his knife in Frank's face.**

**"Yeah? You gonna do something, faggot?" the mook said, trying to act tough.**

**As the man started laughing, Frank sized him up. Smaller than any of the muggers last night, but he had the same false bravado from his weapon.**

**Frank showed him his own weapon. The man blanched, panicked. He stabbed Frank in the arm. Frank grabbed the man's wrist, and shattered it, throwing the man to the concrete.**

**As the man lay on the ground sobbing, Frank debated killing him. By his own code, he should. But that might cause problems, so close to his current home. Not killing him could cause problems, too. He had seen that happen before. His thought process was interrupted by the threatened woman.**

**"Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!" she cried, grabbing on to Frank. She was an attractive woman, Frank let himself admit.**

**He took off his coat and offered it to her, seeing as her shirt was in tatters. No one was awake yet, hopefully, so his Goncz would go unnoticed when he returned to his apartment.**

**"Sh-should I still call the police?" She asked, obviously intimidated by Frank's size.**

**Frank shrugged.**

**"I would if I were you." He told her.**

**She ran over to her discarded purse, and grabbed her cell phone. As she started dialing, Frank walked back to his apartment.**

**As he locked the door behind him, he heard sirens in the distance. Fastest police response he'd seen in a long time. Had the police been that fast for him, his wife might still be alive today. He wondered if he'd still be doing what he did had one of his family members survived. He dismissed the notion as he headed toward the bathroom to bandage up his wound.**


	4. Knowing is Half the Battle

**Today was the day, Frank told himself. He had been watching the news story on his latest raid. An interview with Papa Joe Serraso. He was steaming.**

**He had to deny any connection to his son Filipo's (so that's which one it was) business, of course, but he was a terrible liar. Though, with all the influence he had, he had no need to be a good one.**

**Frank spent the afternoon getting his loadout ready. His 1911s, his Second-Chance Kevlar vest, his M4. A SIG-Sauer P230 as a backup. This would be the P230's first outing, though Frank had tested it repeatedly at the range. It was a nice little gun. It was a shame they stopped production of it. The .380 ACP was a decent back-up round, although not suitable for a regular combat pistol. Frank had acquired the P230 from a gun show in Vermont. He had bought it Stainless, but had since blued it himself. It wasn't a tack driver, but it was accurate enough for the ranges he intended to use it at. He put it in a pocket of his newly-purchased coat. The M4 went in a rifle case, and the 1911s went in their normal spot, a drop-leg holster on each thigh. They printed a little, but no one ever took notice in New York. It was like L.A. Everyone minded their own business. Good Samaritans were few and far between.**

**As Frank got into his truck, a nondescript black Ford Explorer, he took a moment to focus, to go over his plan of attack. Joseph Serraso owned a mansion in the was similar to Guitano Cesare's, but with more guards. And since there wasn't any special occasion, like Guitano's 100th birthday had been, there was no way he was getting in unnoticed. Maybe he should be taking the Pig. But he needed to be high-speed, low drag. **

**He turned over the engine. The Explorer had been having a few engine problems lately. Frank needed to get it looked at. Or get a new truck. Once the engine finally started, Frank headed out. It was a long ride. 3 hours. By the time he got to his insertion point, it was getting dark. Perfect. That was an edge he needed. He parked the truck. He was about 2 miles away from the mansion. 1 and 3/4 miles away from the nearest guardhouse.**

**Frank affixed his M4 with a suppressor, and racked the action, chambering a round. A dog barked in the distance. Sounded like a Doberman. Shit. They had good noses. Vicious as hell, too.**

** Frank checked his secondaries and started stalking towards the mansion.**


	5. Demolition Man

**As Frank crept closer and closer to the mansion of Joseph Serraso, he shouting.  
**

**Frank raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and scoped out the mansion. Joseph and his son Ronald were having an argument. Pretty heated one. Frank could make out a few words.**

**"Baby brother" and "You're incompetent" came from Papa Joe, while "You senile old fuck" came from Ronald. Joe turned away from Ronald, holding his head in his hands. He was crying. **

**Ronald wasn't. He pulled a knife, and slit his father's throat from behind. After wiping down the knife, Ronald performed a prayer, it looked like. Then he spit on his father's body.**

**Well, that was one less bullet Frank had to use. Ammo was getting expensive these days, especially without Micro. Every little bit counts.**

**Two other men came into the room, carrying what looked to be blocks of C4. Frank scanned the rest of the rooms with windows, and noticed more dead bodies covered with C4.**

**Insurance fraud, taken to the next level? Possibly a move to start a war with a rival gang? A move to garner sympathy? Plain batshit insanity? Didn't matter. **

**Frank debated switching out his COMP M4 with an ACOG, but decided he'd rather have point of aim/point of impact accuracy than a slight magnification. **

**He entrenched his position, waiting for the coming explosion. He wasn't disappointed. A piece of the mansion actually flew past him. **

**A car engine started near him. Lights were on him. Shit. How did they not set off the claymores? They must have been there already, and he hadn't noticed them. They must have only noticed him from the light of the explosion, though, or else he'd have been ambushed earlier. Men started shouting in Italian. Frank rolled onto his back, and opened fire.**

**Two men with guns fell. As Frank stood up and scanned his sectors, the truck in front of him started to drive forward. Frank shot out the windshield, and the man behind it.**

**He took a moment to examine the bodies. These men looked pretty high in the food chain, wearing $700 suits, carrying expensive H&K USPs (which Frank absconded with). Way out of Serraso's league. He only had the mansion to his name, and the influence of experience.**

**Frank checked the man in the truck. Not an Italian. A Russian. Must be a hostile takeover of daddy's business. **

**Frank reloaded his M4, expecting encounters on the way back. He was disappointed.**


	6. It's On Now, Gents

**POP POP POP.**

**Frank woke up from a light sleep. Gunfire. Suppressed. He'd wager a Ruger Mk. II with a GemTech. Not subsonic rounds, though, or he wouldn't have**

**heard it at all, mixed with all the noise of the city. Still, it took a professional to hear it and register that it was gunfire. It was close, though. Down the street?**

**Frank headed over to the window.**

**Two men emerged from the alley next to the apartment complex across from Frank's. They were dragging a bloody body bag.**

**This was too close to home to be a coincidence, too professional to be random. Had the scum of the city found him? Were they taunting him, trying to aggravate him into making a stupid move?**

**The two thugs threw the body bag into the back of a van. One of them looked up at Frank's window, straight into Frank's eyes. A Russian. The man grinned.**

**Frank just glared back. No matter the situation, he refused to be intimidated. This was an invitation. A challenge.**

**He took down the plate number of the van as it pulled out of the alley and drove away, a difficult task.**

**They headed towards the Manhattan river. But they'd be back, Frank was sure of it. Unless he took the fight to them, as he planned to.**

**Frank would NOT let some scumbags dictate his tempo.**

**Frank didn't go back to sleep that night.**


	7. Alice in Chains

**Morning rolled around. Frank finished loading up his guns. He was taking an H&K SP89 (A civilian copy of the MP5K, it was pretty damn nice, though it was now banned from importation), and his trusty 1911s.**

**For long-range, he packed an MSG90, just in case he needed to slay bodies from afar. Suppressed, of course.**

**He packed his truck with the weapons, and headed out.**

**The Manhattan River was his guess where the scumbags had their base. It was a popular place for scum to gather, especially to dump bodies.**

**As he parked outside a suspicious warehouse, he noticed some mooks talking. They were open-carrying Type 56s. Must be the forward observation post.**

**They didn't notice him, thankfully.**

**As he headed to a vantage point with his MSG90 (in a rifle case, of course), gunfire rang out.**

**A truck was heading towards the gate of the parking lot, a man hanging out the passenger window with a rifle, firing wildly. The two mooks at the guard post fell without a shot.**

**Frank dropped to the ground and pulled a 1911.**

**The truck sped by him, through the guard post. An alarm started blaring.**

**Frank noticed the truck's passengers were Italian. A revenge attack?**

**He headed over to his truck, and got his assault kit.**

**He chambered his weapons, and headed in.**

**The place was a battleground. Who knew one truck could do so much damage? Well, Frank could, but he didn't expect it from common mooks.**

**A Russian noticed Frank, and yelled out a warning to his comrades. Frank failure drilled him before he could finish.**

**He kicked down the door to the warehouse's office, spraying thugs with lead.**

**As he cleared the rest of the building, he heard more trucks coming.**

**So it was a full-on assault. Probably the remainder of Papa Joe's boys.**

**As he burst through a door, he heard crying, screaming. Women's voices, shouting out for help.**

**He scanned the room. It was full of cages. Most of them were filled with emaciated women.**

**A slavery camp. As he turned to leave, and clear the rest of the building, one reached out to him.**

**"Please, mister! You have to help!" she sobbed.**

**Frank stopped. He should just clear the rest of the building, and not bother with these women. He wasn't there to save anyone, he was there to punish the guilty.**

**The cops could take care of this camp. So why did he have a bad feeling about letting them do so?**

**No time to think, a man came rushing in, gun blazing. Frank put him down with two Hydro-Shoks to the chest.**

**The women screamed at the gunfire.**

**Frank waited for five minutes, no contact.**

**He looked back at the cages. The women were as far away from the doors as they could get.**

**He sighed. He shouldn't be doing this.**

**He walked over to the first cage, and blew the lock off the door.**

**As he pushed the door down, the women inside rushed to him. He kept them at bay. Couldn't get distracted.**

**He did the same with the rest of the cages.**

**"Stay here." he growled, once he finished.**

**Frank exited the cage room, weapon at the ready.**

**The battle outside was dying down. The Russians had pushed back the Italians, but lost most of their men. Frank would finish the job.**


End file.
